


When Disaster Strikes

by dreamkinglynch



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-31 09:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18588538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamkinglynch/pseuds/dreamkinglynch
Summary: Noah’s sledding is interrupted, Ronan can’t meet his brothers for dinner, Henry’s house is full of drunk strangers, Gansey’s quest for Glendower will not be deterred by a little snow, Adam gets trapped on the highway because capitalism sucks, and Blue has been up since 4am helping set the shelter up for Henrietta’s panicking citizens. This is a story of six people seeking shelter from Virginia’s worst blizzard since 1996. A couple of them are concerned about the natural disaster headed their way, but most of them have better things to be doing. Eventually, though, they all end up at the same place for the night and find an unlikely group of new friends to pass the time with.





	1. Noah

**Author's Note:**

> In which Noah thinks that a massive blizzard is a good time to go sledding, and that approaching an angry stranger is a good idea.

Noah Czerny was a man of opportunity. While everyone else saw snow as a nuisance, even something to be angry about: endless traffic, lost work hours, driveway shoveling, bitterly cold, et cetera, Noah saw snow as something beautiful to have a grand adventure in. 

So when the warnings, announcements, and alerts from his professors, on the radio, and on his phone had begun, Noah had been ecstatic. He _loved_ snow -- loved the way it blanketed everything and made life feel softer, the way it seemed to glow at night, how even in Henrietta with its dark streets and darker fields, that blanket of white never let everything get quite to its usual near-blackness. He knew it was just a reflection of the moon and the stars in the sky, but he liked to imagine the snow had its own light source. 

His favorite thing to do when it snowed was to go sledding. His second favorite thing to do when it snowed was to go out after the sun set and feel the cold on his face, the snowflakes kissing his skin and landing in his hair, on his clothes. It made him feel like he was in a fairytale, like he was _alive._ There was little in this world that made Noah as happy as the snow did. 

Before the college started closing down campus and sending students back to the dorms and professors to their homes, Noah and his friends had stolen trays from the cafeteria. There was a hill between the dorms and the cafeteria that was just perfect for sledding: a slope steep enough that you zipped down to the bottom, where it ended in a gentle curve that flattened out into a small field. It only took a couple rounds before they had a track packed down and were sliding further and further out in the field, Noah laughing with delight every time he started down the slope and again when the fresh snow at the bottom sprayed into his face.

It was late afternoon when all of Noah’s friends had grown cold and tired, leaving him to sled on his own. They’d apologized and expressed that they felt bad, but Noah had just waved them off and tipped himself down the hill. It was snowing harder now, getting colder and colder with each passing minute, but Noah was having the time of his life. The snow was heavy enough now that he could hardly keep his eyes open on the way down, but it was still with a broad grin and a woop every time.

Noah’s nose and fingers and toes were numb, but he didn’t want to go inside yet. Words like _blizzard_ and _dangerous_ and _record lows_ had been passed around for the last few days, but Noah couldn’t find it in him to care about any of that; he was having _fun_. At least, he was until campus security confiscated his tray and sent him off towards the dorms with a word of warning and a heartwarming order to stay warm. Noah had frowned and trudged off toward the resident hall for as long as it took to convince the man he had been listening.

Ever stubborn, Noah walked right past the dorms, heading out onto the street. He tugged his scarf down to expose his face to the air, the snowflakes tickling him. It was true he was struggling to see through the snow falling around him, but he was up to his knees in the stuff and loving it. He walked all the way across town, lost in peaceful thought. It was only when he paused to admire a snowman with a crooked top hat that he realized he was absolutely starving. Nothing was open, though. Of course not; everyone else had stripped the grocery store shelves of food and holed up in their houses. Everyone else was panicking. Noah huffed a sigh and leaned against a building, tugging his eyes away from the snowman to look around him.

He’d only been to this side of town a few times; the street signs were obscured with white and the buildings that surrounded him were unfamiliar. Nothing else was recognizable under the snow, either. In theory, there were supposed to be things like bike racks and trash cans, but the only evidence that there was anything there at all were the uneven lumps that stuck up from the otherwise smooth, snowy surface. 

Across the street, though, was something of note: one of the shelters that had been opened up in all the panic about power outages and rescuing drivers from the nearby highway. People were piling into the building mostly in groups, but there were a few people by themselves. His interest piqued, Noah pushed off the wall and crossed the street without looking -- there was no need to. The entire town was too terrified to drive. Which meant the snow in the street hadn’t been disturbed, so Noah had the pleasure of leaving the train tracks of his steps through the pristine powder. 

He joined the crowd of people pushing inside, gratefully accepting the blanket that was pressed into his hands. He stepped out of the way of traffic to observe. They had turned an empty warehouse into a warm room full of strangers coming together with rows and rows of mattresses filling the empty floor. Noah hugged the blanket to his chest and buried a little smile into the scratchy fabric. 

Seeing people together like this made him warm and fuzzy inside, but there was a tension in the air. There was a film of fear on top of the warmth of togetherness. It was the kind of together that only happened when disaster was imminent or had already happened. Still, Noah basked in the feeling of community that flowed around him. 

He spotted a chair off to the side and made a beeline for it, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he did so. He settled into it, folding his limbs into himself and leaning back. He was notorious for taking up more space than one would think, but in a space with so many people he was conscious of exactly how much area he claimed. 

Noah spent the next couple hours happily people watching, making up stories for each person that passed by, for each group of people that scattered the space in front of him. Most of them spoke softly to one another, clutching wax paper cups of steaming hot chocolate and coffee like a lifeline. It was only when a woman bundled in what looked like it had to be at least four coats passed by him close enough that he could smell the chocolatey goodness that Noah’s stomach grumbled in response, triggering an intense craving that made his mouth water. 

He was not one to ignore his stomach, so Noah abandoned his chair in favor of joining the line of snow-dusted people that formed in front of the huge vats set out on a wobbly-looking table. Whoever had set this up was a genius, Noah decided. Panicking people needed hot chocolate and coffee, standard comfort items with the added bonus of being warm. Noah entertained himself while the line inched forward by making friendly conversation with the people around him. 

He spoke to a quiet man who was passing through on his way to DC for a business meeting; a frazzled woman who had spent the day doing her best to prepare her cattle for the storm; several people whose power had been knocked out before the storm had even gotten very bad at all. He got so caught up in these people’s lives that he hardly realized he’d made it to the front of the line until he nearly bumped right into the table. Apologizing to no one in particular, he quickly made himself a cup of hot cocoa (spilling the powder everywhere and hastily wiping it back up) and bid goodbye to his new friends, promising to check in again later. 

For now, though, he made for the spot he'd claimed, but his chair had been taken by an old man with a small child on his knee, so Noah scanned the room for a new spot to sit. He got distracted almost immediately by the most beautiful German Shepherd he’d ever seen, sitting quietly at the heels of a man who was equally beautiful, with cheeks sharp enough to cut diamond, shaved head, a scowl on his face. Noah felt his face split into a broad grin and he headed directly towards them. 

The man was on the phone, but he didn’t seem to be speaking. Instead, he was glaring at nothing and frowning at everything. Noah may not escape with his life, but he needed to pet that dog, so he steeled himself and approached the moment the man put his phone into his pocket. He must not have seen Noah approaching, because he rested his head against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. 

The man’s scowl upon opening his eyes again and seeing Noah only prompted a crooked grin. 

“Hi. Can I pet your dog?”


	2. Ronan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ronan must go into town for important medication; he ends up trapped there by the weather and loses contact with his brothers.

Ronan Lynch was a man of traditions. He ran the family’s farm while his elder brother ran his father’s business and his younger attended the same school they’d both graduated from. The three of them went to church every Sunday and gathered for a family dinner once a month, mirroring the ones they’d had when their parents were still alive. 

Ronan Lynch was a man of traditions. He inherited the family farm and his elder brother inherited his father’s business; the youngest attended the very school they both had graduated from. Sundays saw them in church together and once a month they gathered for dinner; it was just the three of them, now, but it was familiar and it reminded them of the ones they’d had when their parents had still been alive.

When Ronan had found his father’s body and their mother had died a few days later (a freak coincidence, they’d been told), each remaining Lynch had shattered in his own way. As for the relationship between them, a rift so deep it may never have mended if not for Matthew, had torn open between Ronan and Declan, so deep they could only bear to see each other for a single hour once a week with the youngest Lynch separating them with a fragile smile made of glue. 

So it had just been church for a while. It took several years before Matthew mentioned he missed their monthly family dinners with a wistful smile that made Ronan’s healing heart twist and threaten to crack. So he’d invited them to dinner at the Barns the first Saturday of the following month. Declan had set the time -- 7pm _sharp_. Ronan had sneered a sour comment reminding Declan that he’d never been late to a family affair before, much less one held in his own home. But Declan needed to retain some semblance of control, and so had been graceful enough to accept this with nothing but a tightening of his jaw. 

Still, Ronan knew those dinners were important to all of them. They gave Declan something to be in control of, they gave Matthew a chance to see his brothers outside of a church pew where they could have a conversation above a whisper, and they gave Ronan and Declan a chance to begin healing the rift the death of their father had torn open between them. The same rules from church also applied to dinner: no jabs, no insults, no fists.

Today was supposed to be the fourth month of these dinners. Which meant that of course, Virginia’s biggest winter storm since 1996 was rolling in, supposed to hit by evening -- and one of Ronan’s cows was sick. 

When he’d brought them in for feeding, his head count had been one short. Swearing under his breath with panic rising in his chest, Ronan had taken off with Chainsaw in his wake across the field to find her nearly listless near the back of the pasture. It had taken several hours of coaxing and pushing and pulling to get her back across the field. The clouds above them were heavy with snow and Ronan was terrified that if he left her out there, he’d come back and she’d be buried.

It was with a sinking feeling that Ronan realized he’d left his phone in the house, so it wasn’t until he’d gotten her settled in a stall that he could call the vet. At this point he’d been caring for these animals long enough that he had a pretty good idea of what she’d tell him to do, but he always called just in case it was different or her condition worsened. As usual, she gave him the dosage and the medication to give, reminding Ronan how often to check on her and what symptoms to look for. With a brusque thanks and goodbye, Ronan hung up and flung open the door to the medicine cabinet. 

He’d been running low, had been meaning to stock back up, but -- 

\-- _there_ , hidden behind the gauze. One more tube. Ronan let out a heavy breath of relief and reached for it with shaking fingers that knocked neatly stacked rolls over. His heart in his throat, he pulled the cap off only to find the medication had dried out. _Fuck_. Ronan swore and threw the useless tube onto the ground, where it bounced once, twice, before rolling to a stop against the wall with a strange sense of finality. 

Ronan scrubbed his palms over the fuzz of his hair (he needed to shave again soon) with a sigh. He’d have to go into town and pray that somewhere would still be open. Heart heavy, he glanced back down at his phone and pressed the call button beside Declan’s contact information, pressing the phone to his ear and listening to it ring. He could already hear the bristling of his brother’s voice, all too ready to find Ronan at fault. The thought of the missed calls and texts he’d swiped away in favor of dialing the vet’s number only grew the sense of trepidation in Ronan’s chest. Declan _hated_ when his attempts at communication went unanswered.

“Ronan. What the _fuck_ \--”  
“Darcy’s sick,” Ronan interrupted, hearing the strain in his own voice, the cracks in his walls. “I have to go into town for medication because my last tube was fucking dried up. Get Matthew and head this way, I’ll be back as soon as I can. You guys can start on dinner.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Ronan could picture Declan clearly in his mind: his fingers tightly curled around his phone (never more than a year old), the muscle in his jaw jumping as his two instincts fought; the one that told him to argue with Ronan, to spit the venom he received right back; and the one that told him to protect his family and keep them together no matter what. It seemed the second one was the victor, because the next word from Declan was a resigned, “ _Fine_.” Another beat of silence. Then: “Have you called Mattie?”

Mattie. Maybe Declan was more worried than he was letting on. Ronan watched the toe of his boot bounce absently off the barn wall as he thought about his response, rolled it around in his head until it was the perfect temperature: just hot enough that it would burn your tongue and make the roof of your mouth feel a little strange for a few hours. “No. You’d have lost your shit if I didn’t call you first.” 

And then Ronan hung up. He didn’t want to hear whatever Declan had to say in response to that, didn’t have time to listen to it. He called Matthew.

“Ronan? Declan’s been trying to call you all morning, is everything okay?”  
“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine,” Ronan said. The way Ronan spoke to each of his brothers was so vastly different that if a stranger overheard him speaking to Declan and then Matthew back to back like this, they might assume it was two different people. When Ronan spoke to Declan, his voice was stormy grays punctuated with lightning strikes; when he spoke to Matthew, his voice was soft rose with the thorns removed. “Darcy’s sick, I gotta go to town to get her medication. Declan’s gonna pick you up so you guys can get started on dinner, okay?”

“You’re going to town? Ro, it’s about to start snowing. You’re gonna get stuck,” Matthew said, the worry plain on his voice. He’d never been one to disguise it the way his brothers did (although each did it for very different reasons); he just left his emotions right there out in the open for everyone to see and right now it made Ronan’s gut twist. 

“I don’t have a choice. Darcy needs meds, especially with the weather tonight. Hell, that’s probably why she’s sick in the first place. It’s only snowing a little right now, I’m hoping it won’t be a problem,” Ronan explained, careful to keep his own emotions (a little panicky and a lot overwhelmed) out of his voice. There was a pause, and Ronan could picture Matthew just as clearly as he’d pictured Declan. A little frown tugging at his lips, looking wrong on that mouth that was always upturned and smiling, could see him wrapping and unwrapping his curling hair around a finger while he chewed at the insides of his cheeks. 

“If you get stuck in town, promise me you won’t try to come home. How much gas do you have? They’re saying it’s supposed to get heavier in the next couple hours. I’m--I’m scared you won’t even make it there.” His voice was tight, thickening in the last sentence, breaking off a little on the last word. Ronan bounced his boot’s toe off the wall again, frowning deeply. It was a choice between upsetting his brothers (in very different ways) and sitting idle while his cow got sicker and sicker. If Matthew’s worst case scenario became true, he and Declan would get to spend dinner together and they could take care of Darcy just as well as Ronan could. 

“If I get stuck in town, I’ll find somewhere to stay. Promise,” Ronan said, his voice quiet and firm. 

“You better,” Matthew said, but there was no edge to the words, none of the teasing threat they might have held, none of that Lynch charm they each held a different piece of. 

“I will. I promised,” Ronan reminded, and hung up. He pocketed his phone and dragged his hands down his face, emotions overwhelming him for a moment. His hands came to rest on the back of his neck, overlapping. He curled his fingers into fists there against the junction of his neck and shoulders on either side, feeling the skin stretch over his knuckles, feeling everything swirl up inside him, threatening to spill over, the wooden wall in front of him looking very tempting -- but he sucked in a breath instead; everything receded on the slow exhale. 

“Alright Darcy. Hang in there. Declan and Matthew will be here soon. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, pausing beside her stall. She was laid out on her side, breathing labored, but she lifted her head when he spoke as if to acknowledge him. Ronan’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. He didn’t have any more time to waste. 

Whistling for Chainsaw as he crossed the yard to the BMW with snowflakes beginning to kiss his skin, he didn’t have the time to bother waiting for her as he unlocked it and dropped into the driver’s seat. She would come or she wouldn’t. She did, though, right as he was turning the key in the ignition. He opened the door for her and pulled out into the street with tires squealing and gravel crunching beneath them.

The drive to town was eerily quiet. Preoccupied, Ronan didn’t turn on any music, instead listening to the beating of his heart and the sound of the road underneath him and the wind blowing past, bringing snow directly towards his windshield. It had been merely flurries when he left the house, but the closer he got to town the bigger the flakes and the heavier the snowfall. Ronan’s grip on the steering wheel only tightened, his brow furrowing in stubborn determination. 

But it wasn’t that easy. Of course not. The stores he went to were all closed. So were the three large-animal veterinarian offices in town. The snow was heavier now, the slush on the roads beginning to freeze over as the temperatures dropped and vehicles became less frequent. 

Ronan sat in the parking lot of his last option (closed, of course) with the engine running quietly. His head was tipped back against the headrest, thinking through the supplies he did have. As long as he kept Darcy warm and hydrated, she might make it through without the medicine until all of this cleared up. Gathering his thoughts and sitting up with a sigh, Ronan threw the BMW into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot, his tires slipping a little. He only gripped the steering wheel tighter.

Traffic now was worse than ever. There were fewer drivers on the road, but they were _crawling_. The weather was bad, yes, but going merely five miles per hour seemed to Ronan like it was almost more dangerous than going a normal speed. All he was asking for was over ten. Strangely, though, cars ahead of him were pulling out of the line and turning around, which set off dominoes of panicking thoughts in Ronan’s head. The highway was just up ahead, too far for him to see, but if people were turning around here, did that mean the highway was a parking lot of panicked people? If that was true, Ronan’s way home was through twisting back roads that were more likely to spit him out and wrap him around a tree than they were to allow him to get home to his cows and his brothers. 

_Shit,_ his brothers. Ronan had stopped getting messages from them -- he glanced at the BMW’s clock -- almost three hours ago. He glanced at his phone sitting innocently and quietly in one of the cupholders with a frustrated sigh that pushed itself out through his nose and ended in a soft curse. There was a small chance, though, that he could get through to the highway and get back home to Darcy and Matthew and Declan. That hope flickered softly in his chest for a few minutes until the sight of the police barricade at the onramp blew it right out again, leaving Ronan colder than he’d been all day. 

He couldn’t get home. The thought set a wave of panic rising in Ronan, threatening to choke him and blacken his vision. Panic turned to frustration turned to anger turned to the heel of Ronan’s hand hitting the steering wheel and him throwing the BMW into a three-point turn and speeding back towards town.

In the seat beside him, Chainsaw made a sound that drew Ronan’s attention. He glanced over, his expression softening as he ran his fingers over her head. “It’s okay. We’ll find somewhere to stay. Declan and Matthew will take care of Darcy for us. They’ll be okay.”

It wasn’t until he said the words out loud that Ronan realized that they really were true -- his brothers had grown up the same way he had and knew exactly how to take care of a sick cow. Ronan just worried. Too much, he’d been told. He disagreed; you could never worry too much about living beings that depend on you for survival.

Sighing, Ronan pulled over and rested his head against the steering wheel. He had no idea where to stay the night; after all his driving around, his gas gauge hovered at just above a quarter tank. Unlikely to last the night. He had no intentions of freezing to death, and he refused to put Chainsaw in danger. Ronan put one of the leather bands around his wrist between his teeth, dialed Declan’s number, and leaned his head back against the headrest once more while he listened to the dial tone. He did his best to ignore the way his heart beat harder against his ribcage with each passing ring, but it was hard to do when he could picture everything so clearly: The table set, his brothers sitting in silence while the food steamed away into the still air; Declan with his sleeves pushed up to the elbows and his arms crossed over his expensive button down and that crease between his brows that their mother used to smooth out with her thumb; Matthew in his nicest tee shirt, nervous fingers playing at the edge of his placemat while he made idle jokes in a fruitless attempt at relieving the tension; the half-smile Declan would give for the socially acceptable split second before his expression would settle back into its frown.

“You have reached Declan Lynch. If this is a business call, leave your name, number, and reason for calling. If this is a personal call, you also need to leave a message. Or don’t. It’s up to you.”

Ronan had been so lost in his thoughts that Declan’s voice startled him. Relief washed over him so fast it made his chest hurt; realization made it bottom out just as quickly, leaving him feeling dizzy and sick. He didn’t realize he hadn’t reacted physically until the voicemail beep startled him; he hung up without saying anything, tapping out a quick text instead. It occurred to him that he had never actually listened to Declan’s voicemail message all the way through before, but nothing that his brother had chosen to say there surprised him; in all reality, it summed Declan Lynch up quite well. He was about to call Matthew instead when a knock sounded at his window. 

Ronan scowled and rolled the window down half an inch. A well-meaning bundle of coats and scarves stood bent over, peering into the BMW.

“What?”  
“Is everything alright there, sir? Storm’s gettin’ bad out here. There’s a shelter about a block down this street, ye’d better head that way while you still can. ‘Specially with your pal there, he won’t last as long as you an’ me would.”  
“ _She_ is fine, thanks,” Ronan bit out, voice edged. As much as it pained him to admit it, this stranger was right. And they’d answered his question of where to stay. Still, Ronan set his jaw and rolled up his window without bothering to give a response and peeled off into the street, ignoring the way the back of his car fishtailed in protest.

Trapped in a situation out of his control made Ronan irritable on a good day. When it kept him from his animals and made a liar out of him, forcing him to cancel when he’d sworn he wouldn’t have too -- that made Ronan so angry his skin itched and his fingers tingled. So even though the shelter was easy enough to find, after Ronan had added the BMW to the cars lining both sides of the street, he didn’t get out immediately.

His mood was black and boiling and he wasn’t ready to face a room full of terrified strangers that were going to try and make small talk while Ronan would have to press crescent moons into his palms so he would keep from getting himself kicked right back out onto the street. It was only once the orange needle had dropped the last little bit to officially below the marker for a quarter tank of gas that Ronan pulled the key from the ignition with a sigh, pushing the door open. Chainsaw followed dutifully, sitting at Ronan’s heels while he closed the door and locked up, then added himself to the line of brightly colored marshmallows filing into the double doors.

At the door, overly cheery volunteers handed out blankets and coats to those who had none. Ronan waved them off, looking past the entrance to the scene before him. It was a massive space, some kind of repurposed warehouse, if Ronan had to guess; the floor was filled wall to wall with thin mattresses in neat rows. Small groups of people gathered here and there, some already laying down to sleep, some sitting in circles with paper cups clutched in their hands. He headed for a quiet corner, Chainsaw staying close. Leaning a shoulder against the wall, Ronan pulled his phone from his pocket, but his inbox was empty and he had no missed calls; it made his stomach bottom out. He hadn’t texted Matthew though, having been distracted earlier, so he did that now. 

He really wasn’t too surprised that Declan hadn’t messaged him back; he rarely replied to Ronan’s text messages in the same format. He preferred to call instead, or bring it up the next time he saw him in person. Ronan’s theory was that he wanted no confusion in what he meant, and in person he could convey the exact desired tone across. Matthew, however, almost always responded immediately, so the longer his text to his brother went unanswered, the bigger the hole in Ronan’s chest became.

The timestamp above his message told him it had only been a few minutes, but Ronan couldn’t stand to wait any longer. Like when he had called Declan, he was greeted only with Matthew’s recorded cheery voice. Ronan ended the call as soon as it began, swearing and curling his fingers around his phone until his hand shook, pressing it against his forehead while frustration and anxiety roiled through him. Eventually it faded away and he uncurled, turning his phone back on and calling a second time, this time listening to it all the way through so he could leave a message.

“Hi! This is Matthew Lynch! I’m so sorry I missed your call, I was probably in class or my phone died or I got distracted or something, I’m sorry! Uhhh okay so I dunno how much time I have left so just leave me a message or text me or something! Okay bye!”

Listening to the message when he wasn’t sure his baby brother was safe made a lead ball of dread settle into Ronan’s stomach, but he gathered himself as Matthew’s recorded words ended and the beep sounded instead. 

“Hey. They have the highway blocked off, I can’t make it back tonight. I’m at the shelter on Keebler. Let me know you’re okay. And Darcy. I’m worried about her.”

Ronan made sure he was disconnected before he hissed a breath out from between his teeth, letting his head fall back against the wall and scrubbing a hand over his face. Maybe their phones were dead and the power was out at the Barns so they couldn’t charge them. Maybe Darcy was worse off than he’d thought and they were out in the barn, desperately trying to encourage her to cling to life. Maybe Declan’s Volvo had careened off the highway and was lying upside down in a ditch. 

Ronan pushed these thoughts away and tapped over to Declan’s contact, pressing the green call button again, scowling as he was greeted with his voicemail message once more. He called a second time, barely letting the first word play before he cut it off and shoved his phone into his pocket. His worry was settling into a sharp frustration that had him on edge and curled his fingers into fists as he pressed his spine flat against the wall behind him, letting the back of his skull fall back against it and closing his eyes. 

When he opened them again, there was a man in front of him. Ronan’s features immediately twisted into a sharp scowl, but the man just gave him a crooked grin.

“Hi. Can I pet your dog?”


	3. Henry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Henry kicks a bunch of drunken strangers out of his house, loses power, and meets an angel.

Henry Cheng was a man of social status. He lived in a house that was more of like commune with a group of boys he referred affectionately to as the Vancouver crowd. There were five of them: Ryang, whose aunt was their landlord; Cheng2, who was actually Henry Broadway and who constantly had something caffeinated in his hand; Koh, who was their resident toga expert; SickSteve, who organized the games they played at their parties, usually approximately two seconds prior to explaining the rules. It was a Saturday, and Saturdays were for parties, so the Litchfield house was full of partial strangers that were far from sober. 

Henry’s phone had been going off all day telling him how bad this storm was going to be. He ignored it as best he could; he had promised a party, and a party he was going to throw. It was annoying at best and inconvenient at worst when he went to the store for important provisions like beer and chips, only to find the shelves barren. Of course. This wasn’t Canada, so naturally any predicted snow set the quiet residents of Henrietta into a frenzied panic. 

Somehow between the five of them they’d scrounged up enough food and alcohol to fuel a party fit for college students who couldn’t be bothered to care about their impending doom. The only thing they cared about was the chance that classes would be cancelled on Monday.

Henry walked among them, absorbing greetings and drinks and the general energy of the whole affair. But every time he looked at his phone, there was a new emergency weather alert in between the notifications from multiple group chats. He mostly ignored these, as the text messages were mainly memes labelling the blizzard things like Snowmageddon and Snowpocalypse. Henry found their creativity lacking and resolved to come up with better names as soon as he had a moment. They weren’t even creative, it was just the word apocalypse or armageddon with snow stuck on the beginning. 

Henry paused by a window to peer outside, curious to see how much snow had fallen. It’d only been snowing for a couple of hours, but there was already a solid foot out there. He glanced back towards the gathering of people studiously ignoring their impending doom. He thought about the empty shelves at the grocery store, about the shelters that had been opened up across town, about the fact that they’d closed roads except for the buses routing between neighborhoods and shelters. 

Henry decided that he absolutely did not want to be snowed in with these people whose names he only remembered because it would be a social blunder not to. He preferred to remain in good favor unless he chose not to be. Henry huffed a sigh and made his way through the crowd to unplug the stereo system. He hoisted himself up onto a nearby chair and cupped his hands over his mouth, shouting to be heard over the protest at the sudden death of the music. 

“ _IIII_ hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Henry began, drawing out the _I_ as an overly chipper sportscaster might draw out a _goooood morning, ladies and gentlemen,_ grabbing the attention of the crowd. “There’s a fucking blizzard and I don’t want you all in my house all damn night, so get out while you can. Bus stop is a block to your left and there’s a shelter open five blocks past that.” 

Much to Henry’s expectation, there was an outcry of disappointment. He waved them off and spoke up again, raising his voice over everything. “I’ll throw you all a better party next weekend to make up for it. Get out, thank you and goodnight,” he said, hopping down from the chair. Somewhere across the crowd the other Litchfield residents had begun herding people towards the door. 

It took almost a full hour before the house was empty of party-goers, leaving a wake of trash behind them for the residents of the Litchfield house to deal with.

“I am far too drunk to think about cleanup right now,” SickSteve announced from his place draped across the couch, beginning a ripple of murmured agreements through the rest of them. Henry himself was in a comfortable place somewhere between tipsy and drunk, but as usual he’d smoked more than he’d drank, so he was far more functional than the rest of them. 

It turned out they’d had perfect timing with kicking everyone out, because at that moment everything went dark with a low, mechanical whoosh, the distinct sound of everything in the building powering down. This elicited several pained groans from the boys, which only grew louder a few minutes later, once it was clear the generator was not going to come on. 

“Blanket time so we don’t freeze our asses to death!” Henry announced, hopping up and taking the stairs two at a time to upstairs where he pulled blankets and comforters from all their rooms and the linen closet in the hallway, tossing everything haphazardly down the stairs. “Blankets! Get your blankets! Don’t freeze and die!” he called, but once he was done throwing things, he found that none of them had gotten up to take any of them. 

“I gotta do everything myself, don’t I?” Henry grumbled, scooping up as many blankets as he could fit into his arms and taking them into the living room, dumping them one by one onto his friends’ heads. “Stay warm, bitches. This house is old as hell, it’s not gonna retain heat as long as we think it will. Also, you’re all drunker than skunks so you won’t feel cold but that’s how people die so you little shits had better stay under these blankets.”

It took a couple trips, but eventually everyone had at least two blankets wrapped around them and a pile in the middle of the floor for extras, so Henry took his own and curled into the corner of the couch, settling down and hoping they’d be okay for the night.

Three hours later, though, Henry was still sat shivering. They’d all piled on extra blankets and a few of them had fallen asleep, but the house was absolutely _freezing_. Keeping wrapped up, Henry pulled himself up off the couch to look out the window. The snow was at least knee-deep and didn’t show any sign of stopping or even slowing down. 

“Alright, this is ridiculous. There’s a shelter a few blocks from here, so I think we should go there,” Henry said, drawing the curtain back with a sigh. “Hey. Everyone up. We’re gonna freeze to death if we stay here.”

The only other person as functional as Henry was Cheng2, so he dragged himself to his feet and helped Henry rouse everyone else. There was much complaining as they pushed everyone up the stairs to get changed into clothing more suited to the outside world. 

A short while later they were counting seats for cars, peeking out the front door to see who was parked where. It turned out that most of their cars were either blocked in by abandoned vehicles or low on gas, which left them with Cheng2’s car and Koh’s truck, but Cheng2’s only had four seats and Koh’s only had two. When it became clear that there weren’t seats for all of them, Henry once again wondered why the hell Koh had decided he needed a truck (“Because we live in Virginia now! It’s what people _do_ ”). 

“I’ll take the Fisker, no worries,” Henry said, because his car was the only other one that was driveable. “I learned to drive in Canada, I got this.”

But his stomach churned with anxiety as he watched them pull out, a feeling that only intensified as he waded through the snow towards his car. He’d piled on six layers of clothing, but the cold was so complete it chilled him straight through to the bone. He hadn’t been in cold like this since he’d left Canada. 

The Fisker, of course, was buried under several feet of snow, just like everything else. Henry looked at it. He looked down the street in the direction of the shelter. He looked at his car again. The thought of trying to dig his car out made him shrivel up inside, and the thought of actually driving in all this made him far more nervous than he’d ever care to admit. He could walk, right? Five blocks wasn’t that far. 

Henry sighed and started off in that direction. It was very slow going and included quite a lot of disgruntled muttering to himself. Maybe they would have been better off staying at the house. Until they didn’t wake up the next morning because they all turned into various levels of drunken popsicles. Maybe he should have squeezed in with everyone else. Henry shuddered at that thought, of being pressed that close with even people he liked being around. Maybe they shouldn’t have had the party in the first place. Maybe--

Bright headlights behind him startled Henry out of his thoughts. At first he thought maybe Cheng2 or Koh had come back for him, but when the car pulled up beside him, he didn’t recognize the vehicle or the driver. 

“Need a ride?”


	4. Adam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adam is actually prepared for the storm, but gets stuck on the highway anyway because of capitalism.

Adam Parrish was a man of caution. He kept canned food and blankets in his car at all times, he checked his oil every time he pumped gas, he unplugged his electronics before leaving the house. He liked to be on time for things, liked to be prepared, liked to do his research. Some of these things were survival skills, some of them simply good habits. Either way, there was little that Adam left up to fate if he had the choice.

He’d been watching the weather reports since the first sign of the storm, tracking the radar from a few different sources, watching the fronts and making his own notes about when the storm would hit and how bad it was likely to be. Of course, he didn’t have much experience in the way of blizzards, having lived in Virginia his whole life. But he knew that if he wasn’t doing this he’d be in line with everyone else panicking and buying up all the bread and canned goods (not the milk though. He would never understand why people bought so much milk in times of crisis). It wasn’t that he hadn’t stocked up on non-perishables, it was just that he had done it much, much earlier than the rest of Henrietta. 

Adam had also been dutifully keeping his gas tank full, topping it off every day on his way home from work. He normally kept it just above half-full, but with a winter storm rolling in and no guarantee he wouldn’t get stuck in the elements, he felt better seeing the needle float all the way to _full_ every time he turned on his car. He’d been trying to hint to his employers that they should consider closing early today; he’d mostly been brushed off because, “Everyone else is staying open, so we’re staying open. We ain’t losing business ‘cause of a little snow.” 

So naturally Adam found himself watching dejectedly as the snow outside the shop window began to fall more and more heavily as the hours dragged on. This morning had been busy, with people bringing cars in for last-minute oil changes and tire checks before the storm, but by now the garage and parking lot were empty save for the snow. Adam had cleaned all the tools and made two rounds of straightening up the shop in an effort to put his nervous energy towards doing something besides standing behind the counter and drumming his fingers to the beat of his anxiety. Moving around and organizing helped; standing still with nothing to keep his body and mind occupied did not.

Through the glass storefront, Adam could see the neighboring buildings turning out their lights, their employees slowly pulling out onto the road. Sighing, he glanced back through the shop to the half-open door of the office. They hadn’t had a customer for hours, but the last time Adam had asked about the possibility of them going home before the roads were covered, he’d been met with an irritated look that said he should know better. 

The bell of the front door jerked Adam out of his thoughts, making his back straighten and his face break out into a cheery smile. 

“Hi, welcome to Boyd’s--Oh. Candice, hey.” Half of Adam had been hoping it’d be a customer -- it would give him something to _do_ , but the rest of him was relieved that it was only the woman who ran the pawn shop two stores down.

“Y’all are still open? It’s rough out there. Where’s Boyd? He can’t be keepin’ y’all here like this with a storm like that out there,” Candice said, but Adam knew she wasn’t really looking for a response because she was already stalking past him across the open garage floor to Boyd’s office.

He could vaguely hear their voices floating up from the back of the shop, and though he couldn’t make out the words, he could hear the tones of their voices and imagine how the conversation was going. Candice and Boyd had managed these neighboring stores for years, far longer than Adam had ever worked for Boyd; if nothing else, this was clear in the way they bickered like an old married couple. Both of them were quite opinionated and not at all shy about raising voices, particularly when there hadn’t been customers for hours. As usual, this created a bolt of anxiety that settled hot in Adam’s stomach. He just picked up one of the pens from the counter and spun it around his finger to the rhythm of his speeding heart. 

Finally Candice emerged, looking pleased with herself; a moment later Boyd emerged, looking angry with the world. Adam wanted to shrink away from him, but he kept his feet firmly planted and met his gaze as he approached the counter. 

“Locking up. Get outta here and get home, Adam,” Boyd said, in that way that had always activated Adam's fight or flight response, just a little bit. No matter how pissed off he looked, he’d never taken up anger with Adam or any of their customers; he just lived his life with his brows drawn together and a frown on his lips. This had always been very confusing for Adam, who lived _his_ life searching voices and faces and posture for signs he'd done something wrong.

“Thank you,” Adam said, shoving anxiety over things past and present deeper into his chest to keep his voice from shaking. He waited for Boyd to turn away before he let out a silent, heavy breath he hadn’t been fully aware he had been holding and tugged his keys out of his pocket. The familiar weight of them in his hand was comforting and grounding; he needed everything he could get to calm the tremor in his thoughts. It didn’t matter that Adam had worked for Boyd for years now, that he hadn’t lived under his father’s roof in almost as long. His pulse still raced and his stomach still sank into his toes and stayed there, writhing, until the interaction was over, waiting for a ball to drop that never would. 

Then there was the weather. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adam had been anxious about _that_ since it had begun to form, ever since it had become clear it would be a storm and that it was going to sweep over their tiny town. And now he had to drive in it, after it had had plenty of time to deposit snow and ice onto the roads. 

Dragging himself out of his thoughts, Adam stepped out from behind the counter and called out a goodbye to Boyd before slipping out the back door. There was already a disconcerting pile of snow on his car, and even the excessive amounts of salt they’d poured onto the pavement in preparation hadn’t been able to keep it clear -- a few defiant inches lay innocently across the parking lot. 

Adam had installed his snow tires himself, but doubt crept into his mind as he slid the key into the lock and brought out the snow scraper. He locked his jaw against the cold that swirled around him, careful not to dump snow onto his feet as he cleared it off his car. Thinking about the highway as he worked, Adam wondered if it’d be clear or if it’d be a wintery parking lot. His mouth twisted into a frown as he realized it was likely to be the second one, but he had to go anyway. 

A few days ago, he’d asked Boyd if they could just stay here if the weather got bad, where there was heat and a generator if the power went out. There wasn’t a lot of food -- just what Adam had stockpiled in his car and whatever was in the tiny fridge in Boyd’s office. Boyd had said no. Adam had experienced the repercussions of questioning decisions before, and though he knew Boyd was unlikely to respond in a way that could qualify as a repercussion, that anxiety had still glued Adam’s mouth shut. 

But he needed to focus on the task at hand, so he climbed into the driver’s seat with a determined set to his shoulders and his expression and carefully pulled out of the driveway. He could feel his tires trying to slip in the snow and the ice, but the traction seemed to be holding. Good. 

Adam was so focused on feeling for slipping that he came up on the on-ramp sooner than he expected to, surprised to find that it looked to be clear. He didn’t dare go above thirty, though, as he drove all of five miles before he came upon rows of brake lights. He was only two exits away from the one he needed, but these cars were in park. Adam added his Hondayota to the parking lot, putting it in park and leaning back against the seat with a sigh. It was better than he’d expected, but it was still a setback. The longer he was out here, the colder it got and the thicker the snow fell. 

He turned the heat down to the lowest setting and pulled a blanket from the back seat to wrap around his shoulders, wanting to conserve his gas. He had no way of knowing how long they’d be stuck out here; he doubted it would be long enough to burn up an entire tank of gas, but that was a possibility. Adam desperately hoped that wouldn’t be a reality. 

With his gaze fixed ahead searching for movement and signs of flashing lights, movement caught his gaze. The lights of the car in front of him had gone out, which mean they’d either turned their car off or they’d run out of gas. Adam frowned and pushed his door open, rolling the window down before he shut it again (the last thing he needed was to be locked out of his car right now), approaching the car. He knocked on the window with a pleasant smile; a moment later the driver cracked it open. 

“Are you alright, sir? I’m right behind you an’ I noticed your tail lights turn off.”  
“I’m uh, actually running out of gas. You don’t happen to have a can with you?”  
“No, but I’ve got blankets and food. It doesn’t look like this is gonna be cleared up anytime soon,” Adam said, shaking his head and pulling the blanket from his shoulders to offer the man. 

“I’ve got a big ol’ coat back here,” he said, refusing the blanket, instead reaching into his back seat. “I’ve got a couple blankets back here in my trunk too, lemme help you hand these out.”

By the time National Guard made it out to them and got everything moving again and people heading into town, Adam and the other man (George was his name, he’d learned) had made their way through the next mile’s worth of cars, connecting people with food and warmth if they needed it, consoling panicking children and adults, offering use of their phones to those who needed to make calls. 

Everyone who’d been stuck on the highway was being funneled into one of the shelters; it was closer than Adam’s apartment, and he didn’t trust the roads to be cleared for him to get across town anyway. He did, however, take a small detour to avoid the mess of cars right outside the building. He found himself just a few blocks away from the shelter and alone on the road -- except for the man walking down the sidewalk, wrapped in blankets and still visibly shivering. Adam pulled over and rolled his window down, calling out. 

“Need a ride?”


	5. Gansey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gansey decides to battle the elements and loses.

Richard Campbell Gansey the Third was a man of his word. Maybe it was his upbringing in the public eye and his mother’s campaign trails, or maybe it was his own self-imposed standards, but when he set a date for an event, he stuck to it. He’d had this expedition planned for weeks; there was no way a little bit of snow was going to stop him. However, with each passing day the predicted snowfall grew and grew until it was accompanied with words like “warning,” “winter storm watch,” and other such scary terms. Still, Gansey was equal parts stubborn and equal parts unaware of the danger. This date was set. 

Even though the only person he would be making a rain check with was himself, instead of rescheduling he made his way to the nearest Cabela’s and bought himself a full set of insulating clothing: a thermal undershirt with little squares knit into the fabric to trap warm air against his skin; a pair of leggings with the same technology; a pair of noisy snow pants that chuffed against itself with every step he took; insulated leather gloves that were so comfortable he swore he’d never take them off again; two pairs of thick, better-than-wool socks; and last but not least, a heavy duty pair of snow boots that were far from his standard fashion of footwear but that he’d been told would do well for his purpose.

With a confidence that was the result of several days’ worth of pep talks -- telling himself that he was prepared for this, that he’d taken his precautions -- that Gansey piled himself and his gear into the Pig. He didn’t let it falter even when his car’s engine did -- he told himself she just didn’t like the cold. He couldn’t blame her, really, it wasn’t his favorite weather either. Eventually, though, she sputtered and roared to life. Gansey’s smile turned from strained to genuine as ran his hand along her dash, pleased. There was a spot where the leather was worn from the frequency with which Gansey did this; sometimes it was for luck, sometimes it was comforting, and sometimes it was with thanks, as it was now.

It was early enough in the morning that the sun was hardly above the horizon and the temperature was cold enough that even in the car where there wasn’t a chance of wind chill, his jaw ached from the way he clenched it to keep his teeth from chattering together. His core was warm, but the chill on his exposed cheeks was enough to make him shiver and tighten his grip on the steering wheel. He simply took a breath to steady himself and tugged his scarf up to cover more of his face and pulled out onto the highway. 

Gansey was heading for a new, unexplored spot (marked carefully with red ink) on the map he spent his evenings poring over. His ever-ongoing research had led him to this place with the promise of a thicker section of the ley line, hopefully more substantial than the trickle that he’d been desperately trying to grasp at for the last few months. As he drove, Gansey found he had to squint through the snow that flew at his windshield, which took a few minutes to get used to. No matter how much he told himself it was just snow, it was still unnerving to have things flying at his face from outside the car and he found himself flinching more often than not.

He wasn’t as disappointed by the weather today as he had been when the reports had begun rolling in, though. This was largely because he’d learned that sometimes a big, record-breaking storm like this could strengthen the ley lines. Gansey wasn’t sure how much stock he put in that; it could be perfectly true, but it could also be a result of stories changing as they were told person to person. He knew that important events like the winter and summer solstices made a big difference, but the winter solstice had been two months ago. Not that he would know even if there was a difference in the energy; he’d never been here before. But the thought that it might was enough to keep Gansey’s optimism up. 

Gansey must have been more lost in his thoughts than he’d realized, because he very nearly missed his turn. Swearing softly and wondering why his GPS hadn’t warned him of the turn, he pressed on the brakes and jerked the Pig’s wheel, her back end fishtailing in protest across the slick asphalt surface. Gansey held his breath, but she straightened and kicked forward; a second later her tires bumped into a pothole, startling him once again. He was on a tiny backroad now with no traffic in sight, so he eased to a stop and tossed the transmission into park, pressing himself back against his seat for a moment to gather his thoughts.

“In one and a quarter mile, turn right,” the GPS said in its even, almost cheery tone, interrupting Gansey’s quiet moment. He lifted his head to stare with a furrowed brow at it.  
“Did you tell me about that turn and I just didn’t hear you?” he asked. There was no reply. 

Gansey shook his head as if to clear it and gently put the Pig back in drive, continuing towards his destination. Sort of -- the place his phone was taking him was only where he would put his car. There was still a twenty minute walk to the spot he was supposed to begin his search. Every once in a while, a little voice by the name of anxiety whispered that maybe he wasn’t fully prepared for that trip, or even for this whole expedition. Each time, he just set his shoulders a little more stubbornly. He was going to do this; he had done everything he was supposed to do, had all the right gear, his phone fully charged, a satellite phone in his bag, his sister knew where he was going and when to start worrying. 

Gansey summoned up a bit more confidence in himself, opposite of that anxiety that simmered through him. If he gave in and listened, it would take over; he had to diminish it with opposing thoughts. Telling himself that he would be warm enough for the trip, Gansey went through a mental list: with his core warming up he was even beginning to sweat a little bit where the Pig’s meager heating blew at him, he had everything lined up if something were to go wrong, and this was far from the first time he’d done something like this. He was an outdoorsman. Gansey was comfortable in the elements, knew the ways they could play for or against him. He would be fine. 

He blew out a lungful of air that warmed his cheeks where his breath met the barrier of his scarf. That was something he’d have to be cognizant of once he began walking, because he’d read that somewhere once there was a possibility that the tiny amount of moisture in his breath would freeze on his skin and making him colder in the long run. But maybe that was a myth and he’d be fine. No, Gansey reminded himself, he _would_ be fine.

Either way, he was here, so he put the Pig in park and exited the navigation on his phone. Tugging his scarf back up over the bridge of his nose,, Gansey pulled the key and gathered himself to climb out, ducking in the back seat for his equipment and setting out through snow that was already up to his ankles. There was a bit of a trail at the edge of the trees, but it petered off quickly and Gansey was left to his own devices. This didn’t worry him too much; Gansey had spent enough time staring at maps and enough years developing a solid sense of direction that he was confident he knew where to go from here.

The twenty minute trip to his starting point turned out to be thirty because Gansey had not accounted for the fact that trudging through the snow would slow him down considerably. But the effort it took kept his temperature up, so he wasn’t worried about the time adjustment or about freezing to death quite yet. He was, however, getting concerned that the snow had nearly doubled in how fast it was falling in the short amount of time he’d been out of the Pig, reducing the visibility until it was difficult to see more than ten feet in front of him. Still, his equipment didn’t need to see to detect the energy of the ley line. 

Despite all his confidence in following through with this trip, it was becoming clear that there was a distinct possibility that Gansey was in over his head. If he wasn’t careful, that might be literal soon, as the depth of the snow was increasing perceptibly. An hour later, Gansey paused to rest against a tree, catching his breath and taking a moment to pay attention to his body and to take stock of the situation. 

His fingers were colder than he’d like them to be; he was warmer than he’d expected beneath all his layers, so that was good; however, his heart felt heavier in his chest than it should, making him a little dizzy. It wasn’t all bad news, though. Gansey’s instruments had been picking up the energy signals he’d expected them to, even stronger than he’d anticipated. He’d spent the last hour eagerly following a path he could not see deeper into the forest and if it weren’t for the weather he’d still be going. But the snow was nearly to his knees now and he could hardly see through it. 

Disappointment flooded Gansey as the realization that he’d have to go back dawned on him. There was no way to be sure if the energy was this strong because it just _was_ or if it was because of the storm. He’d have to find out another day, because he had over an hour’s walk back to the Pig, and then there was the roads -- white-hot anxiety bloomed in the pit of Gansey’s stomach. 

He’d gotten so wrapped up in stubborn determination to come out here today and find _something_ that he hadn’t even considered the state of the roads or how he would get back to town. Shit. 

With his heart beating in his throat and his mind churning out worst-case scenarios, Gansey made his way back to the Pig, reversing the path he’d taken. He could hardly see his own footprints, which was only mildly terrifying. The reality of his situation began to settle on Gansey, but he couldn’t afford to dwell on it. If he dwelled it would take over and his feet would freeze themselves to the ground, leaving him to be buried under the snow. Gansey gave his head a shake to clear his thoughts, switching his focus to what he’d been finding, settling into a daydream of coming back another day and what he might find here.

Relief washed over Gansey as the familiar color of the Pig showed through under the new snow that had fallen; he hadn’t realized he’d been worried it wouldn’t be there until he saw that it was. Gansey’s chest tightened again as he thought of the drive home, but he forced his thoughts back to his daydream, where he’d been imagining finding Glendower tucked neatly among the rocks on a bed of moss. He devoted just enough focus to the driving to keep the Pig on the road, knowing if he thought too much about it he’d panic and overreact to the way his tires stuck to some parts of the road and slid across others. 

Anticipation built in his chest the closer he got to the main part of Henrietta, wanting nothing more than to be near people and his home. All of that shattered into panic as his gas pedal fell flat to the floorboard and the Pig shuddered to a stop. This was a normal occurrence for her. This was terrible timing for Gansey. Logical thought was near impossible as Gansey tried every trick he’d ever used to get her going again short of messing around under her hood, which was something he very much did not want to do in this weather. Nothing worked. 

The next thing he knew, Gansey was out of the Pig and walking. It was nearly five miles to Henrietta from here, but Gansey could hardly feel his body at the moment, so if his fingers or toes were cold he wasn’t aware of it. He felt better about walking that long a distance out here by the road, where the snow wasn’t quite as deep as it had been in the forest, where there was a chance (slim, but still there) that someone would pass by, offer help should he need it. Gansey was not one to accept help until he was absolutely sure he couldn't do it on his own, but at this point he would accept even the most questionable of rides. 

As it was, no help came. Gansey walked every one of the five miles to town. He'd planned for this, of course -- he hadn't expected it to actually happen, nor had he expected the walk back to take quite so long, or for it to be dark by the time he got there -- but he'd made a mental note of the nearest place he could spend the night if he needed it to. Henrietta had opened a disaster shelter in the center of town, which was closer than Gansey's apartment on the other side. As much as he would rather be in his own home, he told himself this would be a good people watching opportunity. Maybe he'd even make a new friend, as Helen was always encouraging him to do (he remembered her teasing words, _“Maybe someone your own age, this time?”_ with a fond smile. She of all people should know he fit in better with near-retired professors than he did with young adults). 

It was with this optimism that Gansey strode through the front doors, shaking off as much snow as he could from his person before he got too far inside. He was immediately struck by how large the space was and how many people were crammed in here. Somehow, it felt warm and cozy instead of cramped and sweaty, which pleased Gansey. He’d prepared himself for both. A voice offering him a blanket distracted Gansey from his thoughts; he turned and offered a charismatic smile and gestured to himself. 

“No thank you, I’m quite warm.”

“...Right. Yeah. You look like you’ve been outside all day,” the man said with a sheepish smile. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve been awake since four this mornin’.”

“Oh! Me too. Get some rest when you can,” Gansey said kindly, giving the man a polite nod and moving on into the room, searching out a spot to settle down. 

Pulling his scarf from his face, overly warm now that he was inside, Gansey made his way towards the edge of the room. He liked to be against a wall, didn’t like to be surprised by someone behind him if he could help it. It seemed like he wasn’t the only one, because nearly every spot along each of the three walls was taken. By now, most people were settling down to sleep -- or pretend to, anyway. Gansey couldn’t imagine _sleeping_ in this room, surrounded by hundreds of strangers. He could hardly sleep in the safety of his own room, where he knew his door was locked and no one was coming to bother him. 

“Hey! Aren’t you one of the Ganseys?” 


	6. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blue volunteers to escape her family and meets some new friends.

Blue was a person of patience. Usually. Sometimes. Definitely not today. Today, there was a blizzard coming. Today (and yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, ever since they the weather reports had announced the front moving in), every single person that lived in her house would not _shut up_ about the damn blizzard. If Persephone tried to feed Blue one more bad-weather pie she wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t upend it into someone’s lap. 

So today, it was far too early in the morning and Blue’s alarm was going off. She let out an unsavory groan and reached blindly for her phone to make it stop shrilling like that. She knew what time it was going to say, but through bleary sleep-filled eyes, 4:30 was still painful to look at. Flopping onto her back with a sigh, she laid there in the dark until a wave of motivation hit her a minute or two later. Blue drew her blanket back, shivering and rubbing her arms as cool air replaced the warmth, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The sound of movement from downstairs reached her as she dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, a yawn pulling at her jaw. Confusion crowded in, until she remembered with a pang of irritation that her mother had volunteered herself to go with Blue to the shelter.

Blue’s plan was to _escape_ her family, but when she’d announced where she would be, Maura’s face had lit up and she had agreed to go along, as if Blue had asked for company. (She hadn’t.) But maybe in the whirlwind that was preparing a disaster shelter for a town of Virginians who had been panicking for a week, she could manage to avoid her mother. Maybe. 

Pulling clothes on, Blue braced herself to go downstairs. This early in the morning, Maura was a whirlwind, but it was a toss-up of whether that whirlwind would be made of positive or negative energy. Either way, she was way too loud.

Downstairs, Maura bounced around the kitchen between the fridge and the cabinets and the stove. Something sizzled in a frying pan, bringing smells far too strong for Blue, making her stomach turn. She made a face and pulled a yogurt from the fridge instead, waving off her mother’s cheery greeting with a sleepy frown. 

“I’m gonna go ahead and go,” Blue told her, ripping the foil off the top of her yogurt and sticking a spoon in it. “I want to get there early so they don’t stick me with the crappy jobs.”

“No breakfast?” Maura asked, pointing at the pan with a spatula. Yogurt lifted in a silent indication that this _was_ breakfast, Blue called out a goodbye, and spun on her heel to leave the kitchen. She stopped by the door to pile on the mass of coats she’d gathered the night before and headed out into the dark morning. 

Outside, the wind was harsh and blinding, the temperature so cold that she could feel the inside of her nose freezing and she immediately regretted not finishing her yogurt inside. Still, she pushed a spoonful into her mouth anyway, afraid if she didn’t eat it that it would freeze too. She swore she crunched on ice crystals in the next bite, but she soldiered on. 

The distance of five blocks seemed to take years, but finally, _finally_ Blue was pushing through the double doors into a warmth that made her skin tingle and sent a shudder through her shoulders and down her spine. She’d been so caught up in feeling _warm_ that the echoing clang of the doors falling shut behind her startled her so much she dropped her empty yogurt cup. Well, almost empty. There was a little left that had frozen to the sides of the plastic. Swearing softly, she crouched to pick it up, her numbed joints creaking in protest. 

“Hi, are you here to volunteer?”  
Startled once again, Blue straightened quickly enough that the room spun, but she put on a polite smile and nodded at the woman who’d appeared in front of her. She looked stressed, with wisps of hair framing her face and her ponytail drooping and losing pieces.  
“Yes! Blue Sargent. My mom is helping too, but she’ll be here in a little bit. Where do we start?”

***

The next many, many hours were spent doing things like setting hundreds of mattresses out on the floor, preparing and packaging soups and sandwiches, and setting up coffee and hot chocolate (Blue swore there was an entire room dedicated to cups, brown paper bags, and cocoa mix). It was clear that whoever was in charge of setting all this up knew what they were doing, something Blue greatly appreciated. There was nothing worse than being unprepared for a big event like this. 

The never-ending list of tasks made the time pass quickly enough that Blue didn’t realize it was getting close to the afternoon, when the snow was supposed to really start coming down, until some of the volunteers were sent to be stationed by the door. They were meant to be crowd control and to keep things organized: keep the panic down as people came in, be sure everyone who needed it was handed a blanket or coat, with a runner (Blue) in charge of keeping everything stocked.

People had been steadily trickling in since before the sun came up, but now they were coming in a steady stream. Seeing how many people came in with mere sweaters made her heart ache; even worse was overheard conversations about how those people weren’t smart enough to wear a heavier coat. Blue knew it wasn't about intelligence, that winter had this way of sneaking up on you right when your heating breaks and the fridge springs a mysterious leak and its heat or food or a jacket, but then it's spring again so oh well, it won't be cold enough for a while anyway. 

But that wasn't Blue's focus right now. Right now she was doing everything she could to help those people stay warm tonight, which included running around like a chicken with her head cut off keeping everything stocked and people from panicking too much (which was usually done by offering hot drinks and weather updates, reminding them that they’re safe here in the shelter).

It had to have been nearly midnight before things finally started to settle down (and her exhaustion finally started to set in). A few of the other volunteers went to lay down on previously claimed mattresses, while a few of them just drained yet another cup of coffee and pretended it did anything at all for them at this point. Blue didn't like coffee in the first place, and though her eyes burned and begged to be closed and her legs ached and her head spun if she turned around too fast -- she knew she would feel guilty if she laid down. There were still a few groups and individuals awake, so instead of giving in to the exhaustion she picked up another stack of cups and brought a carafe of hot cocoa around with her to check in on everyone.

So far her favorite group was the one tucked away in the back corner. It was quite a strange group of people: 

There was the sharp looking one with the shaved head and beautiful dark skin that complimented light eyes and was a close match to her own. He mostly looked irritated about something or other; half the time when she came over, he was scowling into his phone, but sometimes she caught him in a moment of laughter at something one of the others said, and somehow she felt like that was something special.

One of them had this crooked carefree smile that made dimples appear in his cheeks and his eyes squinch up, with a mop of curly blond hair that was an excellent contrast to skin an even deeper shade. He was sitting a different way each time she saw him, once with his knees up to his chest, once with his legs stretched out in front of him, once with them draped across someone’s lap. 

There was the one with the high cheekbones and freckles and ruddy hair that framed tired eyes that were beyond his years, observing everything around him, eyes she could _feel._ He had a quiet way of being, like he was trying to melt into the background even while he was holding a conversation. She liked his smile; it felt special in a different way than the sharp one’s smile did.

The loudest one was the boy with black hair gelled to perfection, standing at least six inches tall. He had a way of commanding the group, with his swooping gestures and his brilliant grin and his echoing laugh. He had a disaster of a fashion sense, but logos Blue recognized only in that they would always be out of her price range told her it was a very put together type of disaster. It was the type of disaster she herself entertained, so she couldn’t judge him too harshly.

One of them looked like he’d stepped out of some kind of magazine for perfect people. From his neutral hair that laid exactly how it should in a gentle swoop across his head to his dentist advertisement smile to the snow shoes on his feet that somehow looked brand new even though they were months into winter, everything about him screamed privilege and money. Still, he had this kind expression and way of speaking that made Blue want to sit and listen and made even the loud one quiet down and stare, enraptured. 

Finally, there was her favorite of the whole group, who leapt up excitedly and gave her ample kisses every time she came over: a German Shepherd named Chainsaw. It was unclear who she belonged to, because she was sat by someone else each time, but Blue liked to imagine that Chainsaw had brought herself here and chosen this group of her own accord.

Every time she came by, they were on a wildly different topic of conversation from ancient history to cars to the best method of field fertilization. Each time she was invited to stay and talk with them. Each time she would look around the room at the other volunteers still bustling here and there, and with a polite smile and a shake of her head she would decline. Each time this was met with a raucous display of disappointment and a strange sinking feeling in her chest. 

It wasn't until the clock told her it was nearly four in the morning (had she really been awake for 24 hours already?) and her body felt like it was going to collapse that she expected. Much cheering and rejoicing from the boys -- which she immediately shushed because nearly everyone else in the building was dead asleep or trying to be. She joined them in their circle on the floor, crossing her legs in front of her -- the feeling of finally being off of them was at once both overwhelmingly relieving and painful. Blue turned her grimace into a polite smile and looked around the circle, spreading her hands out. 

“Y’all win, I’m here. Finally,” she added with a little bit of a laugh. “First things first: Names.”


End file.
